


And I just wanted you to know that this is me trying (and maybe I don't quite know what to say)

by corrinsfav



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety Attacks, Feelings, Hopeful Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-08
Updated: 2020-12-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:54:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corrinsfav/pseuds/corrinsfav
Summary: Shit, George cursed himself mentally, the hopelessness building up again inside his body and it was when he realized his only hope was the Monégasque, “Charles, I'm dying. Please. Call the doctors. I don't know, I need help or I'll die.”Or, George's mental health finds a dangerous cliff after the Sakhir Grand Prix, but he finds solace and a safe haven in Charles' arms.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/George Russell
Comments: 2
Kudos: 86





	And I just wanted you to know that this is me trying (and maybe I don't quite know what to say)

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work published here and I hope you like it, it was inspired by yesterday's disastrous race and my heart is still hurting for George, he deserved that victory and I will never forgive Mercedes for such a ridiculous mistake. I know Charles' race was also horrible, but I decided to focus only on George because as a Tifosi, I have no words for that clownery.
> 
> This work contains a heavy description of an anxiety crisis that was inspired by my personal experience, do not read if you're sensitive to this kind of content, and if you are struggling with your mental health know that you are not alone and it's okay to ask for help!

George distantly observed the darkness bathing the impersonal room of some hotel in Bahrain, his mind dissipating to places as dark as his surroundings, the painful images of how he was so close, how he _almost_ got his first podium, how he _almost_ was good enough, how he _almost_ proved his worth for the sport.

_Almost._

_Almost._

_Almost._

The word haunted his mind from the moment he crossed the finish line, the moment he knew there was no more time left for a miracle to consecrate him with a place among the three best, a place he yearned for so much that it physically hurt.

His back was bruised from the uncomfortable seat he had to submit himself for three days, his legs were numb, his feet were red, his hands were shaking tortuously, and if George weren't torpid, maybe he would care enough to call the team doctor – even if at the moment he couldn't distinguish which team he should call.

A sharp and penetrating pain crossed his chest, fading as fast as it came, making George's breath stuck in his throat, the feeling of air deprivation hitting him like a brick wall at 247 mph, a shock so intense that his mind fell completely cloudily, taking a few seconds to process what was happening.

 _I'm dying, I'm dying, I'll die in this hotel room,_ that was the absolute certainty in George's mind, every second the panic grew inside his chest, his head throbbing as he tried to comprehend what was happening.

George was unable to move his right hand, only then realizing that he was squeezing the white sheets of the bed with such force that they were almost tearing under his fingerprints, blindly stretching his left hand all over the bed in search of his phone.

His eyes blurred as he tried to search for the number of any one of the teams, anyone who could find him before his body fell unconscious on the bed, but the task seemed impossible, it was as if his brain could manage to drive a car at high speed, but now couldn't even control his breathing.

The British man clumsily pressed one of the many numbers, silently wishing it was at least his engineer, bringing one of his hands to his chest after feeling the acute pain hitting him again.

“George?” even with his head spinning like a whirlwind, the boy was sure the voice wasn't of his engineer, still, he couldn't recognize who it was.

“W-who is it?” he asked tremblingly, a sensation of coldness hitting his body with such force that George felt a chill running down his spine.

An amusing laugh came from across the phone line, “It's me, Charles. You are the one who called me, George.”

 _Shit,_ George cursed himself mentally, the hopelessness building up again inside his body and it was when he realized his only hope was the Monégasque, “Charles, I'm dying. Please. Call the doctors. I don't know, I need help or I'll die.”

Charles felt his body freezing as he listened to George's words from across the line, praying silently he had misunderstood or that it was just a bad joke, “What are you talking about? What are you feeling?”

“My chest is hurting, my head,” George tried to explain, but the words seemed to lack coherence, it was almost as if they were fading. “I don't want to die, Charles.”

The last words were whispered almost like a secret and Charles felt his chest tightening, finally understanding the urgency of the situation and realizing he needed to find George, “Georgie boy, listen to me, you aren't going to die, I won't let you die, I'm going to get the team doctor and we're coming. I promise everything will be fine, don't hang up the phone, talk to me.”

Charles didn't think twice before running through the hotel wearing just his shorts, his hair disheveled and his cell phone in his ear while he tried to listen to what was happening to George, any word or sign he gave, but he couldn't hear anything and it only aggravated his fear.

“George, please talk to me,” the Monégasque whispered so that no member of the Ferrari crew could overhear what was happening, frantically pressing the elevator button that seemed to be out of order and Charles saw the only option was to use the emergency stairs.

An aching sob crossed the phone line after a terrifying silence and while Charles felt relieved to know that George was still awake, his despair increased from not knowing for sure what was happening, “We are already coming, we are coming.”

After two flights of stairs listening to George's cry, Charles finally reached the floor where part of the Mercedes staff was staying, receiving strange and hostile looks from some people who hadn't yet entered their apartments, stopping one of the team members, “Where is the doctor's room?”

“Why do you want to know this?” the man asked suspiciously, staring at the half-naked Monégasque from above.

“Damn, I asked you a question, just answer me,” Charles rudely exclaimed, surprising some people, he knew that wasn't the right way to treat someone and it wouldn't be good for his image, but it wasn't as if he was really concerned about it, the only thing on his mind was George's well-being. 

“There,” the man pointed to one of the doors, his tone of voice showing he hadn't appreciated being treated like that, but Charles would take care of it later with an apology, running to the doctor's room.

The seconds seemed to stretch like hours to George, Charles' voice through his cell phone more and more distant, his body no longer seeming to be his, the feeling of panic being replaced by complete lethargy, it was as if his soul was gradually detaching itself from his body.

The movements of his body looked like scenes from a horror movie, he couldn't do anything but watch from afar, and although a part of his body wanted to panic and scream for help, cry for Charles to come to save him from the darkness, the other part seemed to be slowly falling asleep, and the only thing George could think of with the side of his brain that still worked was that maybe this was the feeling of dying, that maybe this was the despair before drifting into a deep sleep, a mixture of agony and peace that squeezed his guts while caressing his hair.

The following scene flashed in slow motion through George's eyes, the door of his hotel room slowly opening as Mercedes' doctor and Charles rushed towards the bed, and all George could do was watch in silence.

“George, I need you to tell me what you're feeling,” the doctor said as he sat in front of him on the bed, looking deep into the British man's vacant eyes.

“What's happening? Is he okay?” he listened to Charles asking where he was standing a few meters from the bed, worrying and fear dripping from his voice.

The older man didn't answer Charles' question, and although George knew he wasn't well at all, he also expected the doctor could magically say what he had, why all those sensations were assaulting his body.

And it was when the doctor touched George's pale face with his two hands that he managed to feel something, all the sensations of panic, agony, and fear coming back to him at once, an electric shock running through his body so fast that it was the only thing that gave him the impulse to turn his body, throwing up the small amount of food he had eaten during the day on the carpet of the room, the acidic taste in his mouth making the tears fall from his eyes while his hands trembled compulsively.

George couldn't lift his head because even if his stomach was empty and aching, his body kept putting every drop of water out, and through his peripheral vision, he could see the white designed shoes that could only belong to Charles approaching the puddle of vomit on the floor at the same time that a hand gently brushed the strands of hair from his sweaty forehead, lightly caressing his head.

“It's all right, put it out,” Charles whispered gently, kneeling beside the bed without worrying if his expensive shoes might get dirty. “I'm here with you, it'll be all right, Georgie boy.”

Gradually George felt his body relaxing, the time between his vomiting episodes increasing significantly until they stopped definitively, and although he was grateful for it, he felt exhausted, the strength he still had in his body fading completely.

“Ready to sit down?” Charles asked after a few seconds, and he could still hear the concern in his voice.

“I can't,” George whispered faintly, his eyes almost closing from exhaustion.

“I will help you,” the Monégasque said, waiting a few seconds to find out if George was okay before gently helping him sit down, leaning the youngest's back against the soft pillows arranged on the bed. “How are you feeling?”

George spent a few seconds in silence, his eyes closed while he forced his mind to work again even if he didn't have the strength for it anymore, “Better. I'm sorry about that, I don't know what happened.”

“What were you feeling?” the doctor finally asked, bringing the attention back to him.

“I can't explain it, I never felt it,” George stopped again, feeling his stomach turn. “It was a feeling of panic, my chest started hurting like a heart attack, my head was spinning, my soul left my body.”

Charles listened carefully to George's description, knowing very well how many times all these feelings invaded his body and what they meant, just silently thanking for getting to the room on time before things got even worse for him.

“George,” the doctor started slowly, trying to make sure he was well enough. “Although I can't diagnose you, the symptoms you wrote resemble a panic attack. Do you ever remember experiencing these symptoms before?”

The younger man stopped, trying to absorb the words, “I can't have this, I've never felt anything like this before.”

“This does not mean that the condition cannot be developed. Today was a very difficult day for the whole team, but especially for you, and all the pressure and frustration can interfere with your mental health in some way,” the doctor explained, and they watched as George's face went quickly to an expression of fear. “That doesn't mean it's a permanent situation or that there's no treatment, today we have great professionals to deal with these issues.”

“And how do I make it all stop?” George asked innocently, almost afraid to hear the answer.

“As a driver, it's very important that you visit a reliable psychologist, especially after today's episode, so I will need to inform this situation to the team and also to Williams.”

“No,” George exclaimed quickly, the fear beginning to grow back inside his body. “No one can know what happened here today, please.”

“George, please, I need you to breathe with me,” Charles spoke for the first time since the beginning of the conversation, his beautiful green eyes capturing the attention of the British who slowly began to imitate the breathing exercises the Monegasque was doing. “That's very good. There's nothing wrong with struggling with your mental health or needing help, it's good to have someone to talk to who won't judge you, and I've already had to go to one for a long time and from time to time I still need to come back. There's nothing wrong with asking for help, especially with something so important.”

George remained silent for a few seconds, playing with his fingers before whispering gently, “Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm really tired now.”

“First I need to do just a quick check-up to know if you don't have any more serious vascular, respiratory or intestinal problems, and also to know if your pressure is controlled so that I can release you and just carry out the other exams tomorrow morning, otherwise we'll need to do it today,” the man explained politely.

The doctor opened the black bag that he had left beside the bed when he arrived, taking his stethoscope and sphygmomanometer, gently approaching George and informing him of all his actions so that the boy didn't get alarmed, checking if he was ok to spend the night or if he needed to go to the hospital.

“Apparently you're fine, and the exams can wait until tomorrow, but you must drink plenty of water, eat something if possible, and pay attention to any atypical symptoms to call me,” the man explained. “But you can't sleep here, the room is dirty and it's safer if someone spends the night with you, to check if anything happens.”

“You can come to sleep in my room,” Charles offered from where he was sitting on the other side of the bed, watching George closely.

“I don't know, I don't want to cause any discomfort or be a burden,” George answered insecurely.

“We're friends, you're not a burden and I'll feel a lot better if I'm sure you're well and safe,” Charles assured but was quick enough to continue. “But only if you really want to, I don't want to make you uncomfortable.”

George lowered his head, discovering that playing with his fingers was much more fun than facing the two men in front of him, but his mind was too tired for him to think of anything else besides that he needed to sleep and forget everything that happened that day, “All right.”

“Great,” Charles gave such a bright smile that he could have blinded everyone in the room.

The Monégasque helped to organize a small backpack with some comfortable clothes for George and his more personal belongings while the doctor finished talking with the British about how he would wait until morning to inform the teams what happened so that the boy could rest at night.

Charles delicately supported George's body, one of his hands firmly on the boy's waist, the doctor walking in front of them to make sure there was nobody else on the floor who could find out what was happening.

It wasn't long before the two boys were safely in Charles' hotel room, which was very much like George's, “Welcome to my modest room.”

George sat on the bed, sighing relieved to be able to rest his legs, his body begged for a good night of sleep, but he still felt guilty for having a breakdown, for not being able to keep himself under control, “I'm sorry I disturbed your night and caused so many problems.”

“Hey, we're friends, I'll run to you as many times as you need to make sure you're okay,” Charles spoke sincerely as he knelt in front of George, his green eyes piercing the British man's soul. “You want to talk to me about what happened?”

George was so lost in those green eyes that he could barely register the words that were directed at him, needing a few seconds to get his mind back to reality, “I don't want to talk about it, not now.”

Charles smiled empathetically, “It's okay, but know that I will always be here to listen to you. I'll run a warm bath for you, it always helps me.”

It didn't take long for the bath to be prepared, Charles gently guided George to the bathroom, showing where everything he might need was, but the British man held his wrist as he was about to leave, “Can I ask you for just one more thing?”

Charles raised his eyebrow, a thousand ideas running through his mind, but George was quick to explain, “Can you talk to me? It could be about anything, I just need to distract my mind.”

“Sure,” Charles answered with a small smile, standing on his tiptoes to leave a little kiss on George's forehead before leaving the bathroom, closing the door and sitting with his back against it. “When I was eleven years old, I adopted a lobster that my mother bought for our dinner so we had to eat pure pasta and everyone was very angry, except Arthur because he found it cool.”

George chuckled with the story, letting the warm water embrace his muscles and Charles' voice calms him down, “Then at dawn, I ran away with the lobster to go to the pier and return it to the sea, but Lorenzo woke up and locked my bedroom window so I had to spend the night on the porch while rained, the other day I was sick and my mother still grounded me.”

The Monégasque continued telling stories of his childhood and how he was an insufferable child, bringing back some memories from their karting days, sometimes hearing George chuckling, the minutes passed much more easily with Charles's help.

When the bathroom door opened, George was wearing one of his most ridiculous pajamas, but it was the only one the Monégasque packed, “I'm sure you did it on purpose.”

“I swear it wasn't,” Charles laughed, wincing as he saw the bruises on George's back. “We need to take care of this or it will be even worse in the morning.”

“It's not necessary,” George tried to talk, but Charles was already inside the bathroom, returning to his room with a lotion in his hands.

“This always helps me when I get hurt before races,” Charles explained, sitting behind the youngest in bed. “Let me know if it hurts.”

Charles gently began spreading the gel on George's back, pleased to feel the boy relaxing under his fingertips, they fell into a comfortable silence until George spoke, his voice no more than a whisper, “Are you really seeing a therapist?”

Charles smiled to himself with the question, “Yes, you know I went through some very tough times, and I was so hopeless that not even the sport could bring me joy, I would breakdown for anything, so my mother asked me to see a counselor. In the first months, it was hard, I was afraid to be seen as weak, to have my career thrown in the wind because of my mental health, but it was one of my best decisions, today I'm much stronger, 2018 Charles wouldn't be able to handle this season.”

The place fell silent after Charles' speech, taking care of their mental health wasn't something to be ashamed of, but they would be lying if they said it wasn't a complex matter, each one dealing with their own demons - George had just discovered his existed.

The British man realized how the atmosphere had become a little tenser and decided that it was up to him to break it, “Why were you shirtless earlier? I thought that was my thing.”

“I was going to take a shower when you called me, but don't worry, it was amusing to see the Mercedes staff finally enjoying my body,” Charles said, making George laugh gently. “Will you be okay if I take a quick shower?”

“It's your room, you don't have to ask for this.”

George watched as Charles entered the bathroom, deciding that he should stay awake to wait for the Monégasque who had supported him so much today, but the sensation of the soft mattress along with the exhaustion of his mind made him quickly fall asleep.

George's body was aroused from sleep as he felt the bed dipping down on his left side, his eyes opening fast and the confusion taking over his body as he didn't recognize the room he was in, a warm hand on his ankle made his sense of reality return gradually.

“I'm just Charles, you're safe, I'm here with you, George,” the Monegasque whispered carefully to avoid scaring the boy even more.

The tears that shone in George's eyes made Charles's heartbreak, the Monégasque was quick to support his back against the bedpost, gently pulling the younger man into a protective embrace, one of his hands caressing his back while the tears soaked the gray shirt that the Ferrari driver had chosen to sleep in.

“Shhh, it's okay, you can cry, you're safe with me,” he assured, leaving a small kiss on top of his brown locks. “Nothing bad will happen to you because I'm here to protect you.”

“I'm such a failure,” George finally voiced, a hiccup cutting his sentence and making his body shake. “I let everybody down, I blew my big chance.”

“You didn't screw anything. You were the best driver on that track, even with all the problems and with a car you barely knew, you did your best and nobody can take it away from you,” Charles said assuredly. “A mistake of your team doesn't define who you are, and this isn't your last chance, any team would be dumb to let you go after what we saw you do today.”

“But when you or any other driver screws up a race, you know you will have the same car the next race to try again and not make the same mistakes, I don't have that chance,” George explained desperately.

Charles didn't know how to answer, maybe because there wasn't any optimistic word to reassure George's heart, and part of being a Formula 1 driver was to understand how a race could go from heaven to hell in a matter of thousandths, so the Monégasque did the only thing he could, holding George's body against his chest and running his fingers through his hair.

They stayed like that for what could be minutes or hours, neither of them had any more sense of time, it was as if the world outside had stopped and the only thing that really mattered was the way George held the Monégasque's shirt as if he life depended on it and the way Charles' fingers ran gently rubbing the British man's bruised back.

“Je suis très fier de toi,” Charles whispered so softly that it was almost impossible to hear the sentence in their quiet room, and even though George didn't understand French and his mind was slipping to dreamland, he couldn't stop the little smile on his face, a small seed of hope and another inexplicably strong feeling growing inside his heart at the same time Charles left a kiss on top of his head, and maybe it would take him a long time to forgive himself for what happened, but for only that night he let Charles' warm arms bring him peace.


End file.
